


Unravel

by Lythlyra



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-19
Updated: 2011-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-26 06:42:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lythlyra/pseuds/Lythlyra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They strike up a deal -- <i>a favor for a favor</i>, Anders says -- but the entire time there are a pair of glaring, intent eyes on him from somewhere beyond Hawke's shoulder. (Fenris/Anders slash.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unravel

**Author's Note:**

> These are a series of scenes that exist in the same continuity but are glimpses at moments in time. Where this ends, [Drift](http://archiveofourown.org/works/269875) is meant to pick up.
> 
> This contains sexual situations and is NSFW/inappropriate for anyone who shouldn't be reading such content.

It starts the first time Hawke breezes into the clinic, all questions about Grey Wardens and Deep Roads maps. They strike up a deal -- _a favor for a favor_ , Anders says -- but the entire time there are a pair of glaring, intent eyes on him from somewhere beyond Hawke's shoulder.

Anders doesn't even particularly mind exotic elves staring at him, but he would at least like there to be a reason.

Only much later does he find out what that reason is, when they're in the Chantry and Karl's blood is still fresh on his hands. The elf is snarling out a litany against mages, all but saying this is a fate they deserve, and it takes the last of his willpower to quiet Justice's rage even while it does little to sate Anders'.

Distance doesn't change the way the comments chafe at the back of his mind, and when Anders is finally alone -- after Hawke leaves -- he realizes that he quite possibly hates Fenris as much as templars.

\---

There's a crunching sound hanging on the air, a body slumping to the ground and a disturbingly calm Fenris standing over it.

Anders is mostly really, really glad he didn't share the same fate as that poor sod, though his surprise can't really be stifled; both eyebrows are raised as he regards Fenris, who spares him not a single glance, on to the next wave of suicidal bandits in a hazy blur of lyrium-light.

He doesn't _want_ to think that Fenris actually, intentionally saved his life -- dove out of somewhere like an avenging phantom and stopped the blade from edging into his back -- but it kind of _looks_ that way, and if there was ever a time to be baffled, it wasn't now.

That's what restless, sleepless nights alone were for, after all.

\---

"Keep it away from me."

Clasped between the metal finger-plates of Fenris' gauntlet is the scruff of an orange tabby, the creature pliant and far too innocent-looking. Ever since one of the mage's acquaintances brought the cat -- its name, its title, much like its owner is simply _the mage_ or _the abomination_ \-- to Kirkwall, its personal mission seemed to be finding various and interesting ways to seek out and hover around Fenris.

It rubs against his legs, bats at his toes, meows at him even though the person responsible for it is always mere feet away. Only someone as foolish as the mage would think to bring a _pet_ to the Hanged Man. Weekly. Without fail.

Gingerly, the mage in question takes the cat away from the elf, curling it close and smoothing over his ruffled fur.

" _He_ has a name."

" _It_ is a pestilence upon this city." Fenris returned to his side of the table and took up his seat once more, his glower better directed at the hand of cards being dealt.

No amount of warning or evading changes anything; the mage is there, the cat is there, and Fenris is there, even as months spin out.

When the elf stops resisting Ser Pounce-a-lot's attention is the true mystery, but one evening, there is only silence when the cat pads around the table and works its way into Fenris' lap.

\---

It runs red over the ground, dark and pooling and far too much, and Anders knows what he's looking at before he even finishes dashing to his side, but desperate hope won't have him stop.

The angles of Fenris' limbs are all wrong, blood sticky and sickening beneath the mage's boots, and those eyes are _staring_ skyward, unseeing, unblinking.

Anders can hardly breathe.

Battle wages around them, Hawke and Merrill chasing a pack of drakelings now that the dragon responsible for the chaos is gone; he faintly hears the order from Hawke to tend to Fenris, enough of a whiplash to push him out of shock and indecision, to kneel in the gore and reached for the elf.

It's like slicing through the air itself, the way the Veil rips and tears and pours forth frantic wave upon wave of energy. It winds his fingers like something alive and reaches out in vaporous tendrils, searching for wounds and signs of life -- and of the first, there are so _many_ while of the second there are only sparks and flashes, the last impulses of a spirit that won't let _go_.

Brighter. The arcane aura is something radiant and electric, blinding between them. Anders isn't sure how long he stands there, feverish spells falling from his lips, each incantation woven taking him closer to the moment in which the Fade will become elusive and distant, exhaustion creeping at the edges of his mind -- but he _has_ the chase that phantom feeling, the last desperate flutter of a heartbeat.

The gasp that breaks the heavy atmosphere isn't his own. Fenris is moving and groaning, writhing in his own blood, every trace of lyrium branded into his skin blazing.

Fenris is _alive_.

When Anders collapses next to him, it's more relief than exhaustion.

\---

There is no gratitude. No debt. No understanding. No peace.

But things _are_ different.

Tension hangs between them like something tangible, the last shreds of a barrier that hold back an oncoming flood. There are days when Anders can't stand the way it looms over him, lying in wait, just one more reason why Fenris is intolerable, but there are _nights_ when all he wants is to tear down the sodding wall and be done with it.

He _hates_ Fenris.

\---

To most everyone, it's a small mystery that the space outside the healer's clinic remains blissfully clear.

Darktown after nightfall is much the same as it is during the day -- disease-ridden and dangerous. The shadows only grow a little deeper, the mazes and tunnels a little longer, the secrets a little deadlier. The same darkness that the others dread and skirt around, fleeing long before it sets in, offers cover in equal measure. Fenris doesn't remember exactly when he begins to haunt the mage's doorstep, but it's some time after hushed discussions about bandits and templars between Hawke and the mage.

An irrational, infuriating unease originally lures him, only seeking a quick reassurance that the concerns are overly fabricated, but Fenris soon _sees_ the manner of people that prowl here, made bolder by the cover of night.

They soon see the manner of person _he_ is, cold and unrelenting in his fury.

His presence is required less frequently as rumors begin to spread among the unsavory circles of the undercity. _It's cursed_ , they say.

And it's just as well. Fenris never intends to play the silent sentinel for the mage, waiting in the wings while his supposed good deeds go unnoticed. After all, whatever debt there might be between them, they are now even.

It's easier to tell himself that than it is to believe it.

\---

It isn't Hawke that comes marching up the stairs of the old mansion, a realization that has Fenris on his feet before the mage rounds the corner. There is fire in his eyes, an anger easily mirrored in Fenris' own; the fool is uninvited.

"Leave." A single word never sounds so quiet, so dangerous as it does then.

"You know what? I don't think I will," the mage answers in turn, making a show of stepping a little further into the bedroom.

It might be a threat. It might be defiance. Either way, it makes Fenris' skin crawl in a way he doesn't understand.

The mage apparently takes the stifling silence as his chance to continue. "You can't keep doing this," he says, jabbing a finger in the air. "She's dead. Why are you--"

"I'm aware. I crushed the bitch's heart myself."

"So the temper tantrum and gore were just for our benefit?"

"It wasn't so long ago that you almost raised your hand against one of your own, mage. Curb your tongue unless you would have me do so for you." Since the encounter with Hadriana, Fenris offered his apologies to Hawke. The details are hardly any of the mage's business.

There is something cold, hard, behind the elf's eyes, the set of his stance going rigid. It's so perfectly mirrored in the mage that it occurs to Fenris that the mage may very well be baiting him, seeking an impossible fight -- and Fenris is too volatile to truly care, the earlier battle still a vicious anthem beneath his skin.

"We're not discussing me." The mage's voice is low, strained.

There is a flash of satisfaction, triumph, that Fenris doesn't bother to stifle. "Then you may see yourself out."

As easily dismissed as he is acknowledged, Fenris turns away and returns to the table and his favored chair. There are _footfalls_ behind him, but before the hand reaching out can touch him, the elf is whipping around, gauntlets grasping a wrist in an unforgiving hold and twisting it behind the mage's back, forearm brought across his throat.

"Are you insane?" the mage manages to rasp out, fingers prying at the elf's grip -- and then there is a pulse of electricity that has the elf hissing and letting go, every lyrium brand etched into his body igniting in a ghostly glow.

The flash of pain has him bracing against the wall, the mage still mere steps from him and rubbing at the abused flesh of his throat.

Magic. The surge of disgust that it brings is all-consuming. He is on the mage again, hands fisted in that utterly foolish coat and dragging him up, only to send them both careening into a wall.

Something cracks -- the wood, the mage's head? -- but Fenris is too livid to care.

"You dare touch me with your filthy spells--"

"Spells that have saved your sorry hide on more than one occasion--" The mage is shoved harder into the wall, bodily.

"Why are you _here_?"

The question lances the tension. Why indeed?

Where there are no answers, there is a press of lips instead, fingers splaying against the back of the elf's neck and _holding_ him in place. Snarls and growls persist until Fenris stops fighting, stops shoving, and they began a graceless tangle of moving limbs attempting to seek out the room's only, dusty bed.

It's a wonder they make it that far.

\---

The world is a harsher place by the light of day.

Anders is gone before the elf awakes, and Fenris thinks that it's easier that way.

At first.

He will never quite understand how he finds his way into the mage's clinic that evening, once the lanterns are extinguished, and into his bed.

\---

They never agree to it. They never put a name to it.

One day, Anders stops leaving the mansion and starts leaving Pounce there as well. One day, Fenris puts a scrap of fabric around a gauntlet and vehemently denies its meaning.

They argue about it frequently, and it ends the same way that it always does.

\---

Rain follows them from the Wounded Coast and into the city. Fenris is wet and sodden by the time he returns to the stuffy mansion, and Anders, following close behind him, is no better than he is but remains in spectacular spirits, all things considered.

It certainly has something to do with the view.

By now, he understands that his attraction to Fenris is as maddening as it is inexplicable, but it just isn't fair. How could someone who infuriates him at every turn hold such power over him without trying?

Well, it doesn't help that the bastard is soaking wet in skin-tight leather and obliviously leading the way upstairs.

The moment Fenris removes the greatsword from his back and sets it aside, Anders can't resist presses up against him from behind, arms carefully wrapping around him.

The elf hisses, presumably from the chill brought on by their wet clothing. " _Mage_."

"Mmm?"

"Remove yourself."

Anders' response is snuffling his nose beneath the damp locks of hair at his neck; he really doubts the shudder he feels has anything to do with cold. "I can think of other things worth removing, actually."

So he does.

\---

Anders believes that if someone can present the truths about mage freedom clearly and logically, people may actually listen. That's how the manifesto starts.

He spends long nights pouring over it, to the point of sleep and back again. More times than he can count, he wakes up with ink stains on his face and protesting muscles in his neck, but it's Fenris' reaction that is the most interesting.

The elf can scarcely read his handwriting or the words, the concept of the written language still fresh to him, but he gleans enough to know what the nature of the rambling is -- and often hides it under threat of destroying it entirely. It becomes a new source of tension between them -- _You would write this filth in my presence_? Fenris once demands in the cold, furious voice that still manages to make Anders tingle in many, many different ways -- but Anders knows that Fenris doesn't understand that this is something he _has_ to do.

Hidden, destroyed, or burned: Anders always finds one copy of the manuscript or another, and it's back to work.

Until tonight.

Fenris' even breathing stops, and there's the sound of bedsheets rustling, a shadow soon falling over the cluttered table. Anders knows the elf is looming, scowling, angry, and it's not an easy thing to ignore -- but he does valiantly.

"It is late, mage. There will be much to do tomorrow. Sleep."

Anders' response is a simple, quiet, defiant thing: the scritch-scratch of his quill across scraps of parchment, feverish and inspired.

There is the creak of floorboards behind him, no doubt Fenris shifting impatiently. "I will not ask you again."

It's a tired sort of warning, the elf's voice rough with sleep and irritation. Anders lifts his free hand and waves it dismissively. "Soon. I just need to finish this part."

"Soon" will never come, he knows, but his answer really makes little difference if Fenris is going to pick a fight over it.

He braces for the ranting and the anger, for the moment in which the papers will be snatched away and scattered. He finds only silence.

Confused -- and maybe a bit concerned, as Fenris is still unpredictable and volatile at the best of times -- he cranes his head over his shoulder.

Nothing. No one.

Well, Fenris certainly has his attention now.

"Uh, Fenris?" No answer.

It isn't until Anders attempts to stand that it happens, weight and pressure at his hips, pinning him firmly where he sits. Startled, it finally forces him to see what he doesn't before: Fenris is tucked neatly beneath the space of the table, strong hands holding him in place. Even as he watches himself being watched in turn, he sees the elf's eyes grow darker, sharper, less bleary.

"Hi?" Stupid thing to say, but really, his tongue feels too heavy in his mouth. The agile fingers plucking at the laces of his sleep trousers are making it no easier.

Fenris' response is a simple, short growl.

Well then. "I should really finish this--"

Anders is all too aware of the way Fenris is leaning in, chest pressing to the front of his knees.

"Then stop me." The challenge in those words is clear.

When he can't find the words or the will, there are long, deliberate fingers reaching beyond the trousers, beyond his small clothes, making purchase on skin that is already very interested, exposing him to the air.

The strokes maintain a sort of lazy grace, maddening in their effortlessness, sparking an electric heat that burns slow and true. It's mystifying at the same time that he wants _more_. When he lets Fenris part his thighs and nestle his head against his abdomen, planting fluttering kisses, Anders already knows he has surrendered. The quill and parchment are thoroughly abandoned.

Each brush of mouth, pulse of breath, drives him beyond thought; there is only feeling, suspended by a thread and waiting to fall. " _Fenris_."

Mercy comes in the form of a clever, swift tongue to the tip of his arousal, working and tracing and tasting, and Anders can't help it, hands loosening their grip on the table and burying into the elf's silvery hair instead, tugging, encouraging.

The bastard gives a short, smug chuckle; Anders wonders for his own sanity when he realizes he wouldn't mind hearing that sound again.

But the only sounds are his _own_ , choked and stifled, when those soft lips finally seal around him, easing lower and taking all of his senses with each inch that is devoured.

Devoured. That is exactly how he feels, consumed from the inside out. Fenris is all pliant and devious mouth, taking him in long slides of suction and tongue, and pulling off with a mind-numbing slowness that both melts and infuriates him, only to swallow him whole again.

Anders can scarcely remember how to breathe, his mouth too dry and his throat too tight, reduced to grunts and groans, tugs and careful arches of hips.

It's over far too soon.

The pleasure coil and pulses, and Fenris doesn't relent, bringing him to the point of madness and beyond, drinking him in until there is nothing left to be spent. Anders is still drawing shuddering lungfuls of air when the elf ascends his body, bracing his arms on either side of the chair.

Even after all this, there is still _defiance_ and _caution_ in those striking eyes.

Anders enjoys kissing it away, taking Fenris' face between his palms and searching, demanding. It's shared breath and taste, the little things driving him wild: the way Fenris tips and angles his head, the way he nibbles and sucks at his lips, growling and groaning.

They can kiss a thousand times, and no single one will be the same -- and he will always want more, despite himself.

Long before Fenris invites him to bed again, Anders knows that he won't resist.

\---

He doesn't know that Fenris is seeking his sister -- that he has a sister, really -- until Hawke walks down to the clinic, suspicious and surly, and asks him along.

They meet in the Hanged Man's taproom, and there she is, a red-haired woman with _Fenris' eyes_ but different in so many other ways. Standing near her, Fenris suddenly seems different, too, grasping at memories and ideals that lead only to deception.

Anders doesn't need to hear a name to know who it is that descends the stairs, that mocks and taunts. He bristles behind Hawke and Fenris, but he waits because he knows they will fight this.

And they do.

There is chaos, pure and simple and in this case, right. It ends how it should, with the man behind years of torment finally forfeiting his life at Fenris' feet.

Quick words and distractions narrowly save Varania from the edge of his lingering fury, but she's gone, and Fenris, even in his victory, seems hollow and restless and alone.

It's no better when Hawke speaks to him, when Anders, after her, tries the same, but he at least thinks that he can understand _why_ now -- that he sees some small part of it, if not the whole.

Anders sits in silence and watches him pace, and when he is finally exhausted, Fenris sits beside him, and they continue to say nothing.

\---

Fenris knows it for the farce that it is the moment he hears the proposition, but he trudges through the very worst parts of Darktown, the very depths of the Bone Pit, chasing the illusive things that the mage insists will offer him freedom from the demon he harbors.

No manner of questions and arguments along the way changes the story until it is well and truly done, returned to the old mansion with more than just space between them.

There are secrets, and they are a poison, eroding their fragile arrangement piece by piece.

The mage stands in the doorway of the bedroom, dressed in a garb Fenris can't recall. It's inky black, shot through with golden embroidery, and he has the irrational urge to shred it on sight.

Instead, he merely waits for the veiled explanations -- _There is something I have to do. It's best if you don't know what that is. Don't ask me to tell you. I can't_. -- and grits his teeth through each evasive word.

All Fenris hears are _lies_ \-- and when his most heated attempts to press him yield nothing, he sends the mage away.

He does not return.

\---

They're watching him, but he can't see when the world is red.

It's the color of the sky, lit with unnatural magic, strewn with fragments and ash. It's the color of the blood on his hands and the sleeplessness staining his eyes.

It's the color of change, of revolution.

As Hawke seeks answers from him, the only he can give are what he knows, what he feels: that he's aware of the cost but that this has to be better than the ways things are.

She asks what _they_ think, but it's left to Hawke in the end. Sebastian calls for his head with the others less clear, less certain, but Fenris _looks_ to Anders, or perhaps beyond him, and there is a depth to his eyes, a flash of an accusation, that isn't usually there.

Betrayal. And if that's what it is, what it must seem, he expects no less than Fenris' words, for Hawke to do simply as Anders asks.

She doesn't. She lets him walk.

She lets Anders stand beside them -- _against_ the templars -- and in the same breath, manages to talk Fenris into staying where Sebastian will have none of it. There is no time for pleading, no time for compromise -- Anders saw to that himself -- before they are marching into battle, wading through templars and abominations alike, and making their final stand.

The farther the push into the city, the farther he feels Fenris slip away.

\---

The remains of the Templar Order offer them only a small window of opportunity to leave on their own terms. Hawke, as wise as she is battle-weary, takes it without another word.

They are on Isabela's ship before nightfall, and by the time darkness does, indeed, come, they are scattered across the vessel

Anders looks and looks and finally, tucked inside the ship's galley, he finds him, sitting atop a crate and nursing a cup of something that he can _smell_ even from the doorway.

Fenris doesn't lift his eyes from the contents of the mug, but he has to know he's there; it's the flex of his jaw, the set of his shoulders that leaves Anders to wonder if this is a bad idea. If he should just go.

When Fenris swallows the rest of the foul drink and stands to leave, shoving past him, Anders catches his upper arm, and they're both painfully still, painfully aware, until the elf wrenches free from the grip in a flurry of lyrium-light and growls.

"Fenris, I..."

"There is nothing to be said, mage."

There _is_ \-- so much, in fact, that it all seems useless on his tongue. "What happened... It wasn't about you and me.You have to know that."

"Do I?" The narrowing of his eyes, the lift of his eyebrow, are scathing.

"If I had known--"

The sudden, warm nearness of Fenris carries a promise of menace that is palpable, overwhelming. "You knew. You planned this."

"That isn't what I meant. Will you just _listen_?"

"It's what happened. It's done."

His steps don't shuffle or falter, stepping back and watching Anders until he's free to walk, to leave -- and Anders lets him because that cold fury is now reflected in him, too, and he has to rein it, rein himself, in.

He has to remind himself that he already knew every step of this, for mages, would be sacrifice.


End file.
